


Five Times Porthos' Gambling Got the Musketeers Into Trouble

by Meskeet, Red_Tigress, Tenebrielle



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 5+1, Angst, Attempted Poisoning, Drinking, Dueling, Friendship, Gambling, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, aramis is a lightweight, but so is anyone compared to athos, financial insecurity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1349686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meskeet/pseuds/Meskeet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Tigress/pseuds/Red_Tigress, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenebrielle/pseuds/Tenebrielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...and if you ask Aramis, he's always stuck cleaning up the mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The One With Aramis

**Author's Note:**

> This is a multi-author fic in which each chapter is written by one author and edited by the other two. Red Tigress wrote this chapter.

The dingy tavern Aramis found himself in with his best friend late one night was not the sort of place Aramis would usually go. The tavern was fairly close to the outskirts of the Court of Miracles, and Aramis had been surprised his friend suggested it. When he asked, Porthos had just shrugged and then grinned mischieviously, saying he had to lay low for a while in their usual spots, after pissing off a lot of people.

Aramis had rolled his eyes, but he himself was not 100% innocent of pissing people off, so he’d let it go. The women here were mischievous and honest, which he enjoyed to some extent. He at least enjoyed the flirting; he probably wouldn’t go with one of these women back to their place of residence. Sometimes he couldn’t tell if the smell was them or the establishment.

Tonight though, he and most of the rest of the tavern were watching the intense game of cards that played out in front of them. The pot was already up to what must have been about 500 sous, and gleamed brightly in the dull light of the tavern. Aramis sat a few feet behind and to the right of Porthos, who was very good at hiding his cards even from him. He also had a decent straight face that made him good at gambling. He looked utterly indifferent now, only looking from his hand to the cards on the table in front of him.

Three other men had been forced to leave the game, but their friend was still competing. Aramis wasn’t at all surprised to see he also had a good face for gambling. Unlike the rest of his fellows, who would sneer or let smiles twitch at the corners of their mouths, this man always looked angry, even when he was winning. If Aramis wasn’t confident in his and his friend’s abilities, he might have been nervous.

The man lowered his hand of cards; Aramis could see three gnaves and and two tens. He still looked angry.

The crowd watching held its collective breath, as Porthos, face still impassive, lay down his hand. Four queens and an ace. Unable to contain himself anymore, Porthos’ face broke out into a huge grin, and he pulled the pot towards him as some people in the crowd clapped.

Aramis’ own smile widened, then fell as the other man leapt to his feet. “You cheated,” he accused.

Porthos raised one of his eyebrows. “I did nothing of the sort,” he said calmly.

The man slammed the table with his fists, making the coins jitter. “Don’t pull that with me, Porthos,” he growled. “You may have all those Nobles up in the North end fooled, but I know where you come from.” Aramis felt his hand move on its own accord to his sword on his hip. Porthos’ eyes narrowed, but he kept his easy smile. “Once a thieving cur, always a thieving cur, eh Porthos?”

Aramis was on his feet before his mind had even fully processed what the other man had said. “You’ll do well to keep a civil tongue in your head or you risk losing it,” he hissed. “Porthos is a King’s Musketeer.”

He felt a heavy arm across his chest, and looked down. Porthos hadn’t risen, just sat calmly and shook his head once at Aramis. Aramis was about to protest, but he looked around, taking in the inclination of the crowd. It was clear the Musketeers were not their favorite people. Aramis looked back at Porthos who was contemplative. While he looked calm enough, Aramis could guess that inside he was fuming. He hated talking about growing up with thieves, much less being one for a time.

“I won fair and square. We’ll take our money and leave.” He offered an easy-going smile. “We don’t want any trouble with…old friends.” His smile turned into something resembling a baring of teeth.

“You’ll leave the money, and then _you’ll_ leave,” the other man threatened. “Or you’ll have trouble whether you want it or not. Your friends can dress you up, Porthos, but in the end the Musketeers are just as much as the thieving brigands and thugs you are.”

Porthos stood slowly, and everyone tensed. In a very quiet voice, he stated: “You can insult me all you like. But I won’t suffer your insults of my friends.”

A dangerous, feral smile flashed across his face, and all hell broke loose.

Porthos kicked the table over, sending people fleeing or sprawling depending on if they couldn’t get out of the way as fast. The metallic sound of swords being drawn rang through the room as people screamed and hustled to get out of the way. Aramis was already in action, blocking a strike meant for Porthos’ back. He grabbed the man’s sword wrist and kicked out, sending him tumbling into a nearby table.

“Just had to do it, didn’t you?” Aramis shouted to his companion.

There was a roar as Porthos swept his sword in an arc in front of, followed by the laugh of a man who enjoyed violence a little too much. “You would have started it if I hadn’t!” Porthos threw an elbow into a man’s face, who stumbled to the floor. It left him open, and the angry man whom had accused Porthos ran at him. Aramis, however, was faster as he cuffed the man over the back of the head with his sword hilt. He tumbled to the ground in boneless heap.

Porthos nodded a thanks, looking around. It seemed the more violent members of the fight were temporarily subdued. Porthos sheathed his sword, leaning down onto the floor as he picked up two handfuls of sous. Aramis sighed, but followed his friend as they made their way towards the bar where the livid barkseep was scowling. Porthos slapped one handful of coins on the bar in front of him. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he winced.

The barkeep scowled. “Just don’t come back.”

Porthos nodded once, and Aramis followed him out. In the dank, Parisian night air, Aramis watched as Porthos stuffed his newly acquired fortune into his coin purse. “You know, you could try…not gambling. Since it always leads to this.”

Porthos pouted at him. “You have your vices, I have mine. I just prefer breaking bones, not hearts.”

“I just don’t prefer having _my_ bones broken.”Aramis grumbled.

Porthos gave a heart chuckled that rang through the streets.

 


	2. The One With Athos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos drinks out of a bottle meant for Porthos. Surprisingly, it's poisoned. Unsurprisingly, no one is very happy about this.
> 
> (Alternatively, Athos always swore drinking would be the end of him. He just hadn't imagined it would be like this.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by me (Meskeet) and beta read by the long-suffering Tenebrielle. Many additional thanks to Red Tigress for allowing me to throw ridiculous ideas and poorly typed rough drafts at her.

It was almost like Porthos _wanted_ to be shot, Athos reflected as he drained a tankard with one hand and gestured for a refill with his other.

It wasn’t that Porthos was particularly obnoxious about winning – most of the time, that was. He smiled when he collected his gold, shrugged when he came up empty, and called for another round of drinks when he and his partner ran dry. He lost just enough hands at first to avoid suspicion, but his spoils were noticeably larger than the others’.

Athos smiled as another of Porthos’ drinks ended up in front of him. The Musketeers was likely one of very few to notice that Porthos only pretended to drink and whenever he called for a new round, the full one ended up before Athos.

With a wry look, Athos accepted Porthos’ bribe, inhaling the liquid more than drinking it, before he rose and moved to join his friend. Carefully he made his way across the floor, barely stumbling as he navigated packed tables. Luckily for both him and Porthos, the place appeared too crowded for a fight to be an at all reasonable option. No, the only fighting here tonight would be through cards and words.

Purposefully, Athos stumbled into the pack surrounding Porthos and his present opponent, bumping into a man who looked to be watching his friend far too keenly for the Musketeer’s tastes. The movement made Porthos glance up – seeing Athos, his hands and body shifted subtly, a slow ripple of relaxation shifting through his stance. It’s not until Athos saw the change that he realized how tense his friend was. Athos saw no flash of cards – Porthos had been cheating longer than Athos had been minding him, after all – but as his fellow Musketeer’s eyes skittered back to his opponent, he knew they were present. Athos moved to lean over the table as Porthos’ companion reached for his winnings.

Porthos stopped him, grabbing the man’s wrist in a motion designed to look aggressive. “Double or nothing?” he asked with a disarming smile, seemingly on the verge of bankruptcy.

“Very well,” the man – scratched leather boots, worn jerkin with a suspicious looking stain on the collar – agreed. From behind him, Athos glared at his friend. _Are you trying to get killed?_

Porthos shrugged, hands nimbly sending out a deal. _One more,_ said the quirk of his lips and the small tilt of his head. _I almost have him._

Athos shook his head, pacing around the table so the man – soldier, really – could see him standing steadily at Porthos’ back. Let him see the threat, allow him to know that Porthos wasn’t here alone. 

The hand went swiftly. Porthos shuffled, the other cut. Athos had seen it a thousand times before – had seen the false tells, the seemingly-nervous way Porthos fiddled with his collar. They weren’t obvious, but they were enough for the soldier to toss in a few extra gold coins, a dare in his eyes. Porthos reeled the soldier in, carrying him along until the pot grew larger than Athos could remain comfortable with. While Porthos usually had a good head for how much a target could afford to lose, Athos had no desire to be caught in a fight.

“Porthos,” Athos said in mock-concern. “Don’t waste your money.”

Then came the reveal, the moment Porthos loved above all else. With a flourish, the two revealed their hands. The other soldier went crimson with rage and then came the line Athos knew would come.

“You’re a cheat!”

“No, just lucky,” Porthos crowed, laughing victoriously, turned to clap Athos on the shoulder. Athos didn’t wince at the blow, used to his friend’s antics after many years.

“Porthos, we’re leaving,” Athos ordered, an eye on the increasingly unhappy crowd. Soon, the accusations could easily turn into a drawn pistol. While Athos didn’t fear a fistfight, a gun in close quarters would make him uneasy. Athos knew full well what he was capable of under duress.

“Athos,” came the response, quick and automatic, but the half-hearted protest was mostly for show. Porthos was no fool, which was perhaps the only reason why when the soldier slammed into him, sending him stumbling a pace back, that he didn’t react. Athos could hear the murmur of words, likely an empty threat.

Still, a threat was a threat. Athos crossed his arms, angling his hip so his rapier was in full view. “Porthos,” he repeated quickly.

He flashed Athos an irritated glance – the _Athos, I gave you drinks, you let me gamble_ one – then Porthos rolled his shoulders, waving his hand at his unsurprisingly full tankard. “Don’t let good brandy go to waste,” he said with a mocking smile.

Athos huffed at that, picking up the mug, a ritual Porthos claimed had as much reverence in it as Aramis’ gaze before the queen. “What did he say to you?”

“He was very friendly,” Porthos demurred, his stance wary. “He expressed concern for my health and wellbeing.”

Athos gave another snort, draining the mug. “I’ll drink to that.”

Porthos bumped his shoulder against Athos, the friendly gesture as cheerfully rough as ever. Athos took a step back, catching his balance and checking to ensure none of the soldier’s friends had swiped his purse when he was distracted.

As they walked outside, Athos glanced back at the inn’s sign. “I suppose I’ll wait a few weeks before drinking there again.”

Athos blinked, squinting at the sign as he shook his head, barely hearing Porthos curse as he swerved to avoid him.

“Damn it, Athos!”

Athos winced, taking a step and almost falling to his knees. “Perhaps that last drink was a bit overmuch,” he admitted dazedly. Porthos grabbed him by the upper arm, catching him as he swayed.

“Athos?” the annoyance in his voice was gone, replaced by concern.

Athos turned to face Porthos, shaking his head. The movement upset his balance, and he bit back nausea, wincing as blood filled his mouth. For a moment, he couldn’t open his mouth, jaw locking as he tried to avoid covering his boots in vomit.

“Por-“ he cut off the word, attention drawn to his shaking hands. For a moment… no. Just his imagination. Then he glanced up and couldn’t see Porthos. Jagged streaks of light pierced the growing haze around him, and he closed his eyes, shaking his head once more. The motion unbalanced him again, causing him to take a halting step.

He ran into a solid object – Athos’ eyes shot open and he growled. It was her. His lady. His brother’s murderer.

“I killed you,” he said haltingly, trying to gather scattered thoughts. Then he blinked and found himself looking at a pair of boots vaguely resembling Porthos’.

Athos threw up, the motion searing through his body.

“Athos?” Porthos didn’t comment on the boots, didn’t comment on the smell that’ll take days to get out. Athos grabbed Porthos with shaking hands, each breath a fire searing his body.

But then he saw her again, heard her laugh ring through the square and Athos threw himself upright, almost stumbling forward again. Two arms locked around him, holding him back.

Athos snarled, throwing himself forward as she vanished from sight. “Let me go,” he growled, yanking away. For a moment, he was gloriously free, free to find her, to catch her, to finally-

“Athos!” the word pierced the daze and he turned. “Athos, what’s-“

Athos threw up again, dropping to his knees. Porthos again. He couldn’t understand, couldn’t understand why Porthos was still here when she was so _close_. But Porthos didn’t know, did she?

“You need to kill her,” Athos said dazedly, licking his dry lips and wincing at the bitter taste. He clenched his fists again, trying to soothe his racing heart. It felt as though an army had fought on his chest, their horses stampeding again and again over his skin until his heart pounded in sensation with a thousand churning hooves. “You must-“

He threw up again.

“Kill her.”

Porthos gripped him tightly, one hand forcing his chin up. “I promise, Athos,” he said, even if his words reeked with confusion.

Athos felt his stomach churn again, but something settled quietly within him. Porthos promised. Porthos always kept his promises, even if it led to him bleeding by the side of a wagon for a man he despised. Athos could trust him.

The Musketeer felt himself being lifted, tried to struggle but found that his blows were casually turned aside. When he struck, he couldn’t tell what he hit – was it her? Had he slipped, injured someone in a duel? He couldn’t see, couldn’t fight, couldn’t _tell_. He lashed out again when he felt his stomach clench, but it was like hitting a boulder.

Porthos. He was striking Porthos.

He held onto that idea, tried to remember it when he felt himself throw up again. This wasn’t wine,  he realized sluggishly. He’d seen this happen to someone before… seen –

Poison. Athos clenched that thought, gripped it between his teeth like a dog and didn’t let go. He forced himself to regain control, forced himself to ignore the call of his name, the sweet smell of her against him, the sound of her choking breaths, the –

Hands holding him down.

Aramis, forcing a vile concoction between his lips.

Heaving for air as he tried to stop throwing up.

Porthos, face twisted with anger.

Or …guilt?

Her.

Athos clawed at the men around him, fought just to get at her. Screaming, always screaming, shouting with unquenchable rage. Loss. Hatred.

_Fear._

Then he woke.

His eyes shot open before his mind could catch up – his body tried to coil defensively, tried to find some way to escape the blinding ache in his body.

_“Athos.”_

The sound of his name made him flinch, but his sluggish reflexes didn’t allow him to do much more than tip his head to the side. It took a scrambled moment to recognize the speaker, but the broad shoulders, rumbling voice, deck of cards laid out allow things to slide neatly into place.

He opened his mouth, but Porthos – he looked hazy, but even an out of focus Porthos was still _Porthos_ – spoke before he could. “You’ve been out for three days,” came the quiet words. “Poison. D’Artagnan tracked down the soldier who did it – it was meant for me after that game.”

“Not-“ Athos winced as his dry throat protested the notion. He closed his eyes, taking in a sharp breath and wincing at the sudden, putrid odor that filled his nose.

“You nearly died, Athos,” Porthos spoke over him as though Athos’ words didn’t matter at all. “You were mad from the poison. Treville called a priest for last rites.”   

The words didn’t fit with Porthos. Too solemn. Too bitter. Athos winced at them though, because he heard the truth. He’d lost control, something he’d sworn never to do once he’d joined the Musketeers. It wasn’t a feeling he’d liked. He’d told d’Artagnan in as many words - swordsmanship was about the precision, not about the emotion behind the blows.

“Wasn’t your fault,” Athos said, but the words catch on the way out and he let his head sink back against the pillow. Maybe Aramis would take care of Porthos’ developing guilt, maybe d’Artagnan would be willing to try to beat it out of him.

“If I hadn’t played a last round with him,” Porthos began and stopped.

It wouldn’t be right to leave this to Aramis and d’Artagnan. They would try, but Athos was the one who caused this.

“I chose to drink,” Athos pointed out, even if it hurt his throat. His stomach gurgled, but Athos didn’t feel another wave of nausea fight to the surface. He could have moaned in relief, certain that he would probably put himself out of his misery if he was forced to dry heave one more time. “Could have been you.”

“ _Should-"_

“No,” the word cut across Porthos, strong despite his frailty. “Aramis’ wenching. My drinking. It’s hurt you before.”

Porthos swam into view again, an irritated expression on his face. “You know it’s different.”

“Shot off a balcony. Stabbed,” Athos stopped listing as he tried to push himself upright. Porthos pushed him back down and he didn’t bother struggling.

“Athos-“

“You cheat. Aramis seduces. I…” he cut off, not wanting to continue.

 _“Athos,”_ Porthos growled, and Athos stopped instantly to glare at Porthos. The grin on Porthos’ faces lightened his mood despite Athos’ best intentions and Athos narrowed his eyes just slightly. “I almost caused your death but I know what you’re trying to say.”

Did he? That was good, because Athos wasn’t entirely sure himself and he didn’t have enough energy to try to remember.

Porthos flipped a card over in front of him and cursed as Athos let himself stare up at the grimy, off-color ceiling. “Beat me half to death in training, and we’ll call it even as long as you stop ruining the bedding.”

Athos closed his eyes, let the side of his lips out of view from Porthos crawl up into what could be called a smile. “Deal,” he said softly, already halfway to sleep and eager to arrive before Porthos could ask about Milady.

Porthos chuckled, then, and Athos let the sound wash over him. It wouldn’t be the end of it, he knew. But it was a start.

 


	3. The One With The Duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and Porthos make an ill-advised bet, and Athos makes a profitable choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by Tenebrielle. Happy birthday, Red_Tigress! :)

* * *

 

“What do you mean you didn’t ask?” Porthos exclaimed.  “This was your bloody idea!”

Aramis cringed and looked around to see if they had been overheard.  The courtyard at the garrison wasn’t the most private place for a conversation, but he’d been left with little choice.  “Shh, keep your voice down!”

Porthos was not to be put off, though he did warily glance up over his shoulder towards the balcony outside Treville’s office.  “You were supposed to tell him!” he hissed under his breath.  

“I thought it had come up, I swear!” Aramis exclaimed.  “‘Twas only after I returned home that I realized.”

“You’ve done it now,” Porthos growled at him.  “Easy money, you said.  I’ve two hundred livres on him, Aramis!”

“I’m well aware of that, Porthos, as a hundred of those livres are mine,” Aramis said glumly.  “Half the garrison’s bet on him as well, I expect.”

“So not only will we be destitute,” Porthos complained, “We’ll be outcasts as well.  I do so love your schemes, Aramis.”

“It’s not my fault!” Aramis protested.  “It was after three bottles of wine!  It’s not as if you were there to assist me.”

Porthos sighed, and they exchanged a sheepish look.  “What’re we going to do then?” Porthos demanded. “If he says no?”

Aramis shrugged. “It’ll have to be one of us then, unless we can convince d’Artagnan.”

“I’m not sure that’s the better option,” Porthos growled.

“You could volunteer and spare us the shame.”

“Because you’ve no head for wine?  Never going to happen!”

“Spare whom what shame?” Athos suddenly asked. He had come up behind them so quietly that neither Porthos nor Aramis had noticed.  They both started, looking round guiltily.  Athos was meant to be riding with the King that day, but evidently they had returned to the palace early.  He still wore his riding gloves and smelled strongly of horses.  Aramis and Porthos exchanged another embarrassed look.

“Nothing,” Aramis lied hastily.  “For no one.”

“Nothing, is it?” Porthos growled, his ill temper finally getting the better of his judgment.

Athos’ eyes narrowed, and his curious expression became suspicious.  He looked questioningly between his friends.  “What is it?”

Aramis glanced pleadingly to Porthos, but Porthos shook his head.  “Don’t look at me.  You’re the one got us into this mess.”

“Betting _two hundred_ livres was your idea!” Aramis cried indignantly.  “You’ll ruin us both!”

Porthos puffed up indignantly, but Athos cut in before he could reply.  “Gentlemen!” he interrupted sharply, but with a smile.  “Do explain.”

Aramis sighed.  He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair.  “I expect you know the Spanish ambassador is back in Paris?”

“Trade negotiations with the King,” Athos said.  

“Well, he brought his private guard,” Porthos said.  “We were drinking with a few of them two nights back.”

“They don’t hold their wine very well,” Aramis added.

“Neither do you,” Porthos grumbled.

“My friends,” Athos interrupted with a smile, before Aramis could make an indignant retort. “I fail to see what the Spanish ambassador’s private guard has to do with Porthos’ two hundred livres.”  He cocked an eyebrow at Porthos.  “Or how Porthos came into possession of such a princely sum.”

It was Porthos’ turn to scowl, and Aramis smirked.  “Among the Spanish guards,” he explained, “Is one Diogo Mão de Ferro.”

“The finest swordsman in Portugal,” Porthos added.  “One might say in all of Europe.”

“Certainly within his own estimation,” Aramis said.  “Though if one goes around making such claims, one should naturally expect to be challenged.”

Athos looked between their hopeful, pleading faces and folded his arms obstinately across his chest.  “Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Athos,” Porthos wheedled.  “An opportunity to test your skill against one of the greats of Europe won’t soon come again.”

“I am well-assured of my own skill,” Athos replied, unmoved by his attempted flattery.  “I’ve no need to test it against others, champion or not.”

“But think of the glory of France!” Aramis interjected with a grin.  “The King will surely not let such bravery go unrewarded, should you win.”

Athos’ eyebrow crept a little higher at their words.  “You make it sound as though this ridiculous contest has already been arranged, Aramis.”

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a guilty look, and Athos straightened in surprise.  “You _didn’t_ ,” he exclaimed incredulously.  “Without so much as a word to me?”

“Now you’ve done it,” Porthos said ominously, nudging Aramis.

“I cannot _believe_ you,” Athos snapped at them both, though he faced Aramis.  “Pimping out a comrade to satisfy your pride?”

“Actually,” Aramis explained sheepishly, “it was to replenish our coffers with the wagers.  Last summer’s campaign cost us all dearly in coin, if not in body.”

“Half the garrison’s got money on you,” Porthos added.  “And a goodly number of Red Guards as well.  There’s a handsome profit in it for us, if you win.”

Athos huffed indignantly.  “If I win?” he asked sourly,  scowling at them both.  “I agree to nothing.  But if this contest were to occur, when would it be?”

“Tomorrow, at noon,” Aramis said swiftly.

“Unless I am badly mistaken,” Athos retorted, “dueling is still illegal.”

Aramis smiled craftily and held up a finger for emphasis.  “Ah, but it’s not a duel.  It is a friendly test of skill between two elite regiments; no-one is to die, of course.”

“I sincerely hope the Cardinal embraces that technicality,” Athos said dryly.  “I should say no.  I should let you hoist your own petards, as you well deserve.”

Their smiles vanished.  “Athos…”Porthos drawled.

“I want a good supper,” Athos interrupted this fresh plea.  “And a good bottle of wine.”

“Fair enough,” Aramis said gleefully.

“And an equal share in whatever your winnings may be,” Athos continued.

“Fine,” Porthos said with a shrug.

“Very well,” Athos agreed.  “I will fight your blasted Portuguese.  Though do inform me next you make a challenge in my name, hmm?”

* * *

 

On the morrow, it seemed no one had informed the swordsman Diogo Mão de Ferro that the contest was no duel.  His skill was such that it was clear Athos was fighting for his life within a few moments of stepping into the improvised ring. Yet his cooler head and the heel of his boot to the inside of Mão de Ferro’s knee won out, however, much to the shock of the assembled Musketeers, Red Guards, and the Spanish guardsmen.  When the honor of this tactic was questioned, Athos had merely replied that a Frenchman had more brains in his boot than a foreigner had in his head.  The epigram was widely repeated around Paris, where rumor had it, it eventually reached the ears of the King himself.

It certainly reached the ears of Captain Treville, who summoned Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to his office and informed them that if they ever pulled such a stunt again, their boots would be marched until their so-called brains were scrambled and then the Cardinal would be permitted to mete out whatever punishment he saw fit.  They took the down-dressing with good grace, though,  as they had all profited handsomely from Athos’ victory.  Judging from his bulging purse, so had Captain Treville. 


End file.
